


Coming Home

by janto321 (FaceofMer)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Alternate Universe - Future, Alternate Universe - Robots & Androids, Androids, BAMF John Watson, Bigotry & Prejudice, Cyborgs, Developing Friendships, Developing Relationship, Eventual Smut, First Meetings, M/M, Mycroft Being Mycroft, Past James Sholto/John Watson, Protective John Watson, Protective Mycroft
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-13
Updated: 2015-08-03
Packaged: 2018-04-09 02:57:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4331151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FaceofMer/pseuds/janto321
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson was born in the slums, joined the army to have another life, and become an Enhanced human to make himself a better doctor and soldier. Gravely injured, sent back to London, Mycroft Holmes makes him an offer he can't refuse: to help and protect Sherlock. </p><p>But the world of these Holmses can be as dangerous as the battlefield, and the enemies are far less clear.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

John Watson was uncertain what to expect when he limped down the sterile hall. It had been surprising enough that he’d been taken from Afghanistan and returned to England. Most in his condition would have been deactivated or at most sent off to the factories. Instead he’d been flown back to London and even received his first pension check. Something was not right.

Pushing open the door he found a bare room containing a posh, suited, gent looking out the window at London. The city was always dirty, skies darkened by manufacturing, the factory districts that ringed the city belching out their clouds of smoke and who knew what else. Those that could afford it lived in the central city with air scrubbers above them that even allowed them to see the sky. John had only ever seen the stars in Afghanistan.

He stood at parade rest while the man made him wait a few moments longer. That was fine, John was nothing if not patient. At last though he turned around and John was caught by sharp blue eyes. There was a wisp of reddish hair and a body that had clearly never seen a day of hard labor in its life.

“I know you are wondering why you’re here,” he said, taking a book out of his pocket. “John Watson, recently returned from Afghanistan, signed into Government Service at sixteen, first deployed at twenty, recently severely injured in Kandahar.”

“Yes, sir,” said John automatically. “I take it you’re the reason I’m here?” He knew the accent of his voice betrayed his birthright. 

“I am.” He moved forward, looking John up and down as if trying to discern what lay beneath the plain jumper. “You are an unusual Enhanced.”

John’s eyes fixed somewhere over the suited shoulder. “I take it you have orders for me, sir?”

“Not orders, a choice.” The book went back into his pocket. “I have a younger brother. He’s clever and intelligent. Unfortunately he is also reckless and has destroyed a number of android assistants in his adventures.”

“And you’re hoping, as I’m Enhanced, that I’ll be less likely to be destroyed?” John couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow, looking at him a moment, then back over his shoulder.

He gave an insincere smile. “Precisely. If not, then there is always room in the factories.”

John repressed a shudder. “I do believe I will take my chances with your brother.”

“I thought you would see it that way. You’ll be meeting him shortly.” the suited man pulled out a mobile and pressed a few buttons. John’s eyes wandered to the window and the skyline. He’d rarely had an opportunity to see the city like this; the slums of his birth cowered beneath the factories.

The other man seemed to follow his gaze. “You may look if you wish,” he said, moving aside.

John was well aware he was being watched as he moved to the window. They were on perhaps the fourth floor, near enough to the central district that the skies were fairly clear and he was able to see the buildings and streets. Despite all his time in Afghanistan, this felt oddly enough like home.

He adjusted the cane in his hand, wondering what exactly would be expected of him as an assistant. Behind him the door opened and he turned, surprised to see a familiar face. “Mike Stamford,” he said, unable to repress a tight smile.

“John Watson.” Mike crossed to him and clasped his hand. “Glad to see you made it back to us.” Mike led the way from the room, John wasn’t certain if the posh man had still been there or not.

“So who’s this gent I’m supposed to be working with?” asked John. Mike had been studying medicine the same time as John had been doing his practicals and they’d hit it off right away, despite the differences between them.

“Oh, I think you’ll like him. He spends a lot of time here. Doing exactly what I couldn’t say.” He opened another door and gestured John inside.

John leaned on his cane again until he came to a stop. The young man was leaning over a microscope, face hidden by shaggy curly hair. He turned a dial and raised his head, taking the coffee being handed to him by a mousy young woman. 

Eyes that reminded him very strongly of the man he’d just seen met his, but instead of blue they seemed more like a prism, with bits of blue and gray and green and gold. He was paler than his brother, despite the access to sunlight. He looked at John as if cataloguing everything about him. “Mike, can I borrow your mobile?” he asked without taking his eyes off John.

“Err, sorry, in my other coat,” said Mike.

“Here,” said John, stepping forward and offering his own. “Use mine.”

There was only a moment of hesitation before taking it from him. “Afghanistan or Iraq?”

“Afghanistan,” said John, wondering how much the older brother had told him.

“You’re an Enhanced. My brother thinks you’ll last longer.”

The woman blushed. John gritted his teeth. At least Mike already knew. “I am, yes. And I did just speak with your brother.”

The curly haired man looked at the woman. "Really, Molly, he's practically human."

"But he's Enhanced, so that means he's not human at all."

"He was born human. Parts are cybernetic, but the vast majority are not." He got up from his seat and prowled towards John. The soldier held his ground, not taking his eyes from him.

“You’ve been on long term assignment to Afghanistan. Somewhat old for an Enhanced which would normally mean that you hadn’t seen much combat, but to the contrary you’ve often been in the thick of it. Your left arm and hand have been optimized for medicine and surgery, but it was damaged, which is why you are here. You’ve got the normal modifications to your heart as well as some modifications to your eyes and brain. Standard for a combat Enhanced. And you don’t have a limp.”

“Excuse me?” John blinked at him and gripped his cane.

“When you’re standing still it’s as if the cane isn’t there. Psychosomatic, some sort of glitch in your programming.”

John’s hackles raised at his choice of words, but he swallowed it back. “How did you know all that? Your brother tell you?”

He scoffed. “You’ve been overseas, that’s plain from your tan. But your left hand doesn’t have the same pattern as the right, because it’s modified. Also your fingers and the pattern of calluses on your hand indicate a doctor. There has been some long term damage to your skin that indicates a presence in combat. The rest is standard.” 

John blinked and glanced at Mike, who shook his head at them.”I’ve got some work to do. I’ll see you two later.” Molly, still looking flustered, went out after him. 

The other man pulled on his coat and grabbed his scarf. “Come along then.”

“I’m John Watson. What’s your name?” asked John as he watched him.

“Sherlock Holmes.” Sherlock turned and vanished in a flurry of coat, leaving John to hurry after him as best he could.

**

They went down to street level. Sherlock seemed to summon a cab from thin air, barely giving John a chance to get settled before he rattled off his address to the cabbie. 

“Where are we going?” asked John.

“Home,” said Sherlock.

John looked out the window, seeing the air clearing. Of course he lived in the central district. He tried not to gape as he looked around them, following Sherlock back out the cab. An older woman was in the hall as they stepped inside. “Mrs. Hudson, this is John Watson,” he said, taking the stairs two at a time.

“Nice to meet you, dear,” she said as John limped up after him.

He stepped through the door into the proper flat and took in the organized chaos. How did anyone own so many things?

“There’s another room upstairs.” Mrs. Hudson came up behind them. “Sherlock, your brother brought a few things by earlier, I assume they’re your friend’s?”

“John Watson,” called Sherlock from the kitchen, “And I don’t have friends.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson,” said John.

“You’re welcome, dear. I’ll leave you two to get settled,” said Mrs. Hudson with a knowing wink, heading back downstairs.

John decided to investigate whatever had been brought for him later. Instead, he went into the kitchen and found Sherlock buzzing around the table, dealing with what looked like some sort of experiment. “Don’t touch,” said Sherlock without looking up. “A man’s life is at stake.”

Nodding, John found the kettle and filled it up, watching the frenetic energy. He fixed two mugs of tea and put one in Sherlock’s hand. When it was clear that the man would be occupied for some time, John took his drink and made his way up the stairs.

The room was a converted attic, just enough room for a bed and not much else. There were clothes in the wardrobe and a small stack of medical journals on top of it. Opening the bedside drawer, John was rather surprised to find his gun, cleaning kit, and ammunition. Obviously, someone thought Sherlock would be in danger and John was the best person to handle it. He mentally added bodyguard to his list of job titles. Grabbing one of the journals, he headed back downstairs and sat in one of the chairs facing the fire, starting to read.

Just as the dregs of John’s tea started to go cold, there was a sudden triumphant shout from kitchen. “I knew it!” said Sherlock, clutching some papers and hurrying out of the kitchen, grabbing his coat and scarf as if John wasn’t even there.

John hurried after him, forgetting both his cane and his gun in the rush, following Sherlock into another cab.

“Idiots. The police are all idiots,” grumbled Sherlock, shifting the papers in his hands. “Clearly the brother did it.”

“You work with the police?” asked John.

“The world’s only consulting detective,” said Sherlock proudly. “When the police need help, they call me.”

John blinked at him, then suddenly burst into laughter.

Sherlock looked at him with alarm. “John?”

“I’ve never even seen a cop, not really. Factory security is something else entirely and they rarely came to where I grew up.” He looked out the window. “You live in a strange world, Sherlock Holmes.”

He was aware of Sherlock’s gaze, but nothing more was said as they pulled up to a street corner. “They’re currently working a case a few houses down.” Sherlock pulled out his own mobile. “Lestrade texted me about it, but I was busy.”

John couldn’t help but follow his lead. The sun was setting and street lights were coming on as they mounted the stairs to a tidy looking home with police tape across the doorway.

A woman was standing just inside the doorway. “What are you doing here?” she asked, arms crossed.

“Donovan, let him in,” called another voice from farther inside.

She sighed and Sherlock lifted the tape, letting John duck inside first. They passed through an entryway and into the largest kitchen John had ever seen. Also there was a dead body on the floor, a small pool of blood underneath it.

“The brother did it on the Croix case.” Sherlock thrust the papers at the grey-haired man that was evidently in charge, and crouched next to the body.

“Who is this, then?” he asked, looking at John. 

“Lestrade, this is John Watson. He’s an Enhanced.”

The low conversation that had been going on just outside the room ceased. John swallowed and resisted the urge to kick Sherlock in the ribs.

“Nice to meet you, John,” said Lestrade smoothly, offering his hand. “Greg.”

“Thank you.”

Lestrade looked at Sherlock as he stood. “It was accidental,” said Sherlock. He quickly rattled off a few details that John hadn’t noticed as Lestrade made some notes. “Please don’t waste my time, Inspector.”

Lestrade gave a crooked grin, “At least you got the Croix case taken care of.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and headed for the door. John followed after, only for Donovan to step in front of John. “I guess you’re his new assistant. Figures the freak would need a freak to help him out.”

“John is a fully trained medical doctor,” Sherlock turned on his heel to glare at her.

“Well just don’t break this one like you did the last one. He looks a little more delicate.” Donovan stepped back with a smirk. “Good luck, John.”

John gave her a look and followed Sherlock back out. “They treat you about as badly as I’d expect them to treat me now that you’ve told everybody what I am.”

Sherlock shrugged and went to summon a cab. “Idiots, all of them.”

John got into the cab after him. “Do I want to know what happened to your last assistant?”

Sherlock looked out the window. “Fell into the Thames. Had some open circuitry due to damage taken on the chase.”

John winced. “I’m sorry.”

Sherlock watched him in the reflection from the passing streetlights. It occurred to John that few people would express sympathy for the loss of an android. But John had never been most people and perhaps his own enhancements gave him a bit of insight. It was said that androids didn’t possess artificial intelligence beyond their programming, but who really knew? Subconsciously, John rubbed his shoulder.

“Does it hurt you?” asked Sherlock.

John looked down at his shoulder. “No. There’s some stiffness and my hand doesn’t operate at full capacity any more. They repaired it as best they could, but there was too much damage.”

“And you declined having your entire arm replaced.”

John shrugged. “I’m a bit old to install fresh cybernetics. Besides, I had other injuries that would have sent me out anyway. I think the only reason they didn’t terminate me at the time was my old CO.”

Sherlock pulled out John’s mobile. “Your CO gave you this.”

Taking it, John nodded.

Sherlock met his eyes. “You were intimate.”

John started. “What?”

Sherlock tapped the mobile. “An expensive gift, not one you chose for yourself. Your CO sought to protect your life because you saved theirs. But she also wanted you to keep in touch. That implies more than simple gratitude. Did she have a name?”

“He, and James.”

“Damn, I missed something,” muttered Sherlock, glancing out the window. 

John pocketed the mobile. “I’m not keeping in touch with him. He returned home to enough controversy; keeping in contact with an Enhanced like me would only damage his reputation further.” If there was a hint of wistfulness to his tone he couldn’t help it.

“And yet you kept the mobile.” Sherlock’s eyes were on him again.

“I didn’t have one, so it seemed prudent to keep it.” John didn’t point out that James hadn’t called him either. Enhanced were strongly discouraged from having any sort of relationships, especially with normals. Their job was to follow orders and, for the most part, to die in battle for the glory of the Empire. John simply hadn’t followed that part of the mission, though it had been a near thing. He shivered at the memory.

Sherlock said nothing else as they returned to Baker Street. John glanced up at the sky as they got out of the cab, squinting and trying to make out the stars. He realized Sherlock had walked right past him and hurried to follow him upstairs.

“I don’t sleep, at least not much,” announced Sherlock, shedding his coat and making his way over to a stringed instrument. “I hope the violin doesn’t bother you.”

“I’ve never heard it,” admitted John.

Sherlock blinked, seeming to be caught totally off guard. “You’ve never heard a violin?”

“Just had basic instruments in the slums and most music these days is just electronic anyway.” John went to put the kettle on.

“Well…” Out of the corner of John’s eye he saw Sherlock bend to pick it up.

The first sweet sounds carried in from the front room as John fixed the tea. It wasn’t like anything he’d heard before. Something stirred inside of him at the soft melody, so unlike the harsh sounds he was used to. He set Sherlock’s mug on the table and went to his chair, settling in and watching him, utterly transfixed.

John quickly lost track of time, watching Sherlock’s delicate hands draw out the most amazing sounds. Eventually though, he started to nod off and the melody changed to something akin to a lullabye.

**

John woke with a start at sunlight streaming through the window. He sat up and rubbed his eyes, realizing he’d been shifted to the sofa sometime in the night. Sherlock was back in the kitchen, puttering with something. John stretched out the stiffness in his limbs and went to the window, blinking in the bright light. A few cars passed on the street, but the neighborhood was quiet. It was all so very strange.

Pulling himself together, John went to fix them breakfast, wondering what would happen next.


	2. Chapter 2

Slowly John grew used to waking in a proper bed, of having tea in the morning and keeping Sherlock from his more reckless tendencies. When Sherlock didn’t have cases he’d often spend his days experimenting with this and that. John took to taking long walks, slowly getting to know the neighborhood around the flat, but being careful not to stray too far. On calm nights John would lay in his bed and listen to Sherlock’s violin until he fell asleep.

Most of the shops around them used androids for their labor, the color of the android indicating which factory produced them. John knew from experience that the workers of the factories had hands dyed from handling so many of the parts. Many of the homes had android servants as well, so when he went into the market, for instance, he was nearly the only apparent human there, the rest fetching groceries for their masters or keeping the shelves stocked.

It was strange to John just how few people he saw, but he imagined that most of them worked in the glittering high rises or stayed in their houses. He’d be willing to bet money that most of them took the sunlight and rain for granted.

One afternoon, John returned to the flat to find the posh gentleman that had recruited him sitting in his chair. “Good afternoon, sir,” he said politely.

Sherlock scoffed from the kitchen. “He’s Mycroft, you don’t have to call him ‘sir’.”

“I can see that you’re settling in, John,” said Mycroft, ignoring his brother.

“Yes, sir.” John went to make them both tea since evidently Sherlock hadn’t bothered. Sherlock rolled his eyes when John turned on the kettle, and went back to his own work.

“I was just telling my brother that I need him to attend a soiree this evening. An event for people of our class. You’ll accompany him, of course.” Mycroft spun his umbrella against the floor.

John nearly dropped his mug. “Me?”

“Yes. I’m afraid nothing will prevent his uncouth behavior, but I know that you will keep him physically safe.”

John brought the tea to Mycroft (the elder Holmes got a teacup instead of a mug). “I’ll do my best, sir.”

Mycroft studied John for a moment, then sipped his tea. “Do you have enough to occupy yourself?” he asked. 

Shrugging, John stood to the side, not wanting to sit in Sherlock’s seat. “I don’t need much.”

“I realize you can no longer do surgery, but there is a clinic you can work at for a few hours a week, if you would like.” Mycroft’s eyes were on his umbrella. “Of course, it wouldn’t prevent you from assisting my brother.”

Sherlock finally came out of the kitchen with his own tea and sat in his chair. “So why exactly do you want me there tonight?” he interrupted. John wondered at the slight hint of jealousy in his voice.

“There may be an attempt on Lady Grover. I have my own people on it, of course, but I believe you can ferret out the culprit.” Mycroft’s attention shifted to Sherlock. 

John retreated out of the front room, going to tidy in the kitchen, needing to do something to keep himself busy, listening to them talk until they dropped their voices low enough he couldn’t hear. Getting out of the flat and doing something productive would be nice. He flexed his injured hand, knowing that he could still doctor, even if not the delicate things. Really, his biggest concern was how people would take being treated by an Enhanced. If they knew. Perhaps he could keep it quiet enough that they wouldn’t notice. 

Finally the door opened and closed. Sherlock grumbled his way back into the kitchen. “You can stop trying to eavesdrop now. We’ll go out in a few hours.”

John dried the dish in his hands. “If you don’t want me to do the clinic job, I don’t have to.”

Sherlock stopped what he was doing and looked at him. “You are your own person, John, if you want to, you can.”

A few bitter thoughts about orders crossed his mind, but he swallowed them back. “My first job is to assist you, sir.”

“Do not call me, sir,” growled Sherlock, setting down a flask a bit harder than necessary. He moved to his microscope, a gesture that John knew meant ‘don’t talk to me’. Sighing, he went out to the front room again, finding a card in his seat with an address and hours. At least it would be something to do.

He walked over and pulled a medical book off the shelf, careful not topple anything else, and sat down to study, burying his nerves about that night’s activity.

**

Just as it started to get dark, Sherlock appeared from the kitchen. “I’m sure Mycroft left you something to wear in your room,” he said, turning to go to his own bedroom.

John climbed the stairs and found a suit laid out for him on the bed. He was surprised by the perfect fit and wondered just how detailed Mycroft’s records were. Glancing in the mirror, he made an effort to fix his hair and headed back downstairs, holding the tie in his hands. He’d rarely worn his dress uniform while he was in the service and ties always seemed unnecessarily complicated.

Sherlock was in the front room, looking remarkably put together, even his curly hair tamed into something neater. He wore the suit as if he’d been born into it, which, John supposed, was more or less true. There was something in Sherlock’s eyes as he looked at John, taking everything in. 

“Bring your gun,” he said at last, taking the tie from John and expertly putting it into place. “There should be an interior pocket where you can keep it.” He brushed off John’s suit, fixed his hair, then stepped back.

“All right,” John swallowed, heading back upstairs.

Sherlock waited on the landing. There was a car at the kerb for them, and John got the door for Sherlock before following him inside. The car was occupied by a lovely young woman in an evening dress, typing on her mobile.

“I’m going, my brother didn’t need to send his pet,” growled Sherlock.

“I have your invitations,” she said cooly, producing them from her clutch. “Also I’ve been instructed to inform you that you ought to act as though you’re a couple.”

Sherlock blinked and looked down at the invitations. “What is my brother doing?” he grumbled. 

John’s eyebrows raised and he looked at Sherlock. The detective’s wheels were clearly turning in his mind before he spoke. “Fine, as far as anyone is concerned you’ve recently returned from duty in Afghanistan, we dated some long distance, but now we’ve moved in together. Our parents set us up originally,” said Sherlock, pocketing the invitations, glaring again at the woman.

“Did you have a name?” John asked her.

“Anthea,” she said, looking back at her mobile. Sherlock was clearly tense behind him. John turned and looked out the window, once again admiring the sights of the city as they drove past it.

They pulled up to a high wall, invitations were checked, and they were waved inside. Anthea quickly vanished, leaving John and Sherlock to make their own way. John tried not to stare; he’d never seen such a beautiful, well dressed crowd. 

Sherlock handed the invitations over to the android butler at the door, keeping a hand on the small of John’s back as he guided him inside. He took a glass of champagne from one of the waiters (also android) and handed it to John. “We must mingle,” he said with distaste, leading him to a small clump or people.

John was in awe of how easily Sherlock slipped on the role. He made small talk and bantered, smoothly telling lies about his and John’s relationship, attributing John’s silence to his recent return. John was aware that they were moving farther into the crowd. Sherlock pointed out Lady Grover.

They were in the process of moving to the next group of people when Sherlock suddenly turned John and kissed him.

John was so shocked that he didn’t even respond, blinking as Sherlock pulled away. “My apologies, I did not want him to see me here,” he said so only John could hear, taking his arm. 

John glanced back and saw a brown haired man. Before he could even wonder who he was, Sherlock was pulling him over to the side. Anthea had excused herself from her own conversation and she and Sherlock spoke in hushed tones. John turned his attention to Lady Grover.

Suddenly there was suspicious movement near her. John had only a split second to react, knowing he couldn’t draw his weapon in this crowd. Instead he sprinted, tackling a young woman and sending her sprawling, gun clattering from her hand. The woman turned underneath him, swinging her fist and connecting solidly. John barely reacted, pinning her wrist with his cybernetic hand to keep her in place. She struggled to break free with her other hand

Lestrade appeared by his side. “All right. You can let her up.”

John let go and moved aside. Lestrade hauled her to her feet while Donovan picked up the dropped gun. Looking up, John could see a nasty bruise blooming on the woman’s wrist and knew it was because of him, because it was hard for him to tell his own strength some days.

He looked down at his hand and realized she’d scratched at his skin, revealing some of the circuitry underneath. Panic skittered down his spine. He quickly shoved his hand into his pocket and got to his feet. Lady Grover was trying to speak to him, but he turned and hurried out, shoulders hunched, suddenly needing to be anywhere but in this crowd of beautiful, fully human people.

He found an exit and ended up in a garden. Putting his hands on his knees he gulped air, wondering at his own reaction.

“Are you hurt?” John was surprised to hear Mycroft’s voice. The man detached himself from the shadows, umbrella still in hand as he came to John’s side, resting a hesitant hand on John’s shoulder.

“Just a bit of damage to my hand,” he said quietly.

Mycroft reached down and took John’s hand carefully in his own. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wrapped it up, hiding the circuitry. “We’ll get you fixed up. Does it hurt?”

“Not really. I...I’m afraid I hurt her. I can’t always judge how tightly I’m holding something, not well.” John bit his lip and looked up at Mycroft’s eyes.

Mycroft looked away and slowly lowered his hand. “If you did, then it’s no more than she deserved. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, sir,” John continued to watch him, his heartbeat still running fast. The blue eyes seemed to take in everything about him. John thought he could get lost in those pools. He opened his mouth to speak again.

“Sherlock will be looking for you,” Mycroft cut him off. “Best head inside. I’ll keep in touch.” He vanished into the shadows as the house door behind John slammed open.

“John! There you are.” Sherlock stood silhouetted in the door, curls knocked loose.

Putting on a smile, John turned and mounted the stairs. “I just needed some fresh air.”

Sherlock saw the handkerchief on his hand. He raised an eyebrow, but said nothing about it, putting an arm around John’s shoulders as he guided him inside. “Just have to keep up the fiction a little bit longer,” he murmured. “Anthea has a car waiting for us, then we can go home, get you fixed up.”

John noticed both Sherlock and Mycroft had used the same words. He nodded and leaned against Sherlock. Some of the partygoers tried to thank him or stop them, but Sherlock kept them moving, muttering platitudes about how John was tired and needed to rest. Finally they were outside the front again, car door open. 

Sherlock steered John inside and sat next to him, rattling off an address. “I know someone who is an expert at fixing cybernetics. Won’t look like there’s been any damage at all.”

“Thank you,” said John. “Lady Grover is safe?”

“Yes. It was a disgruntled niece who’d been cut out of her will. Boring. Pedestrian.”

John nodded and looked down at his hand, fiddling with the handkerchief. They stopped in front of a darkened storefront and Sherlock led the way into the alley, knocking on a door.

After a few moments a green android opened the door. “How can I help you, Sherlock?” he asked in that slightly stilted tone that all androids had.

“My friend got a bit scratched up in a fight, was hoping you could fix him up.”

John pulled the handkerchief free, showing him the torn skin. The android took his hand and examined it. “Simple enough, come inside.”

Sherlock closed the door behind them as they went into a workshop. “Charles has helped me on a number of occasions,” said Sherlock as John was guided to a chair.

“I do not see many Enhanced here,” said Charles taking out some tools. “You were assigned to Sherlock?”

“I was given something of a choice,” said John, glancing at the detective as he poked around the room.

“Which means it was not truly a choice at all.”

John shrugged with his human shoulder, keeping the other one still. “I understand Sherlock had a couple of androids before me?” he asked quietly, aware Sherlock was still present, if at the other end of the room.

“He has. They haven’t all been compatible with his lifestyle. He needs someone that can think for themselves, which is, I’m certain, why you were chosen.”

“He said the last one short-circuited in the river. What happened to the others?”

“From what I understand, the first one took a large quantity of electricity for him, destroying his circuits, the second one, nobody is quite sure what happened, only that she was reported destroyed. The third was the one that landed in the Thames.”

“I’m afraid to ask how long each one lasted.”

Charles glanced at Sherlock’s back. “Do not think that he is callous. He treats android-kind much better than most. My own master is content to let me run the shop while he pursues his own pleasures. So long as I continue to generate income, I am safe.”

“You seem to think for yourself pretty well,” said John, watching him. 

“I have been in service a long time, and I have been able to upgrade myself. Most are not so lucky or are programmed only for domestic work. My job requires a bit more thought.”

John nodded. “I worked with some good androids in Afghanistan. Jobs that required more thought than a simple machine were the ones they were assigned. Like bomb removal.”

“You yourself must be special if you were chosen to be Enhanced.”

“When I volunteered, they gave us tests. I apparently tested positive for intelligence, empathy and bravery, as well as being strong enough to withstand the process. When they offered me this, I could hardly say no.”

Charles made an adjustment to the device he was using. “It sounds as though you have not had many choices in your life.”

“I was born in the slums, I was never supposed to have any choices at all.” John looked down at his hand as Charles finished, flexing it. “Thank you.”

Charles nodded and tested his hand, making sure everything was operating correctly. “You’ve lost feeling and some control, haven’t you?”

“Yeah. I took a bullet in the shoulder and then crawled through the desert for two days dragging my CO with me. They said I was too old for a full replacement, and I didn’t want one anyway.”

“They do say the cybernetic process is best performed on the young. May I see the injury?”

“Sure.” John removed his suit coat, struggled with the tie a moment until he figure out how to get it loose, then removed his button up shirt. He was still wearing a vest and the line on his skin where the cybernetic arm stopped and his own flesh began could be seen. A starburst scar marked the bullet’s damage, the best the local doc could do to hide the damage underneath.

Charles’ hands were surprisingly gentle as he looked at the arm, finding the patch underneath they’d used to access the circuitry when they gave him movement. John patiently allowed him to look and prod, eyes studying the odds and ends on the shelf opposite.

“I might be able to restore some function, but it will be expensive and time consuming,” he said after a few minutes. John’s heart fluttered with hope.

“Cost won’t be an object,” said Sherlock, appearing in front of them. “Finding time will be more difficult.”

Charles nodded and closed the panel. “I understand. And I can not promise you’ll be good as new, John, just might give you back some of what you lost. 

“I’d be glad for whatever I can get.” He pulled his shirt back on and started buttoning it.

“I’ll let you know when we can allow you the time you’ll need to work,” said Sherlock, laying money on the table. John was a bit shocked by how much.

“You know how to reach me,” said Charles, making the money vanish. “Good night.”

“Goodnight, and thank you,” said John, stuffing the handkerchief in his pocket and following Sherlock to the door. The car was gone, but Sherlock had no trouble summoning a cab for them. 

“You didn’t have to spend so much on me,” said John quietly. “I could have stitched it up at home.”

“It wouldn’t be as high quality. And of the money I gave Charles, not all of it will go to his master.” Sherlock was looking out the window.

John bit his lip and stuck his hand in his pocket, feeling the tender warmth of the handkerchief as they drove through the night. He had the feeling there was a lot more out there then he realized. He’d always known there were certain things he wouldn’t understand, but now there were more. Only time would tell what would happen next.


	3. Chapter 3

John tried to pay closer attention to things. It was so different from the life he’d known, so quiet. He kept up the general housekeeping, even though that wasn’t his job to do, simply because he found he had trouble staying still. There had always been something to do, someone to tend, a weapon to clean. Sherlock seemed like he could stay camped out on the sofa for an entire day, unmoving. At least there was the clinic work.

And they worked well together, that was obvious. John found he was good at anticipating what Sherlock needed, and sometimes Sherlock would provide him with something before John could ask for it. That part of things felt right, like they’d always been in synch with one another.

And it was useful with the Yard as well. Sherlock treated most of them abysmally, especially Anderson, and they seemed to hold him in an odd sort of contempt, tinged by grudging respect. Sherlock was good at what he did, even if he had his own methods and ways. John found he could soothe the way to some extent. Though most of them still treated him differently, knowing he was Enhanced.

Lestrade never treated John differently and was the only one that seemed to actually enjoy Sherlock’s company, or at least tolerate him with a smile on his face. John found that he liked being around Lestrade and when he was asked to go to the pub with some of Yarders one evening, he accepted.

By the time John arrived, Donovan, Anderson and Lestrade were already camped out at a table, along with a couple others he didn’t really know. Lestrade waved him over and pushed over a pint. “Glad you came, John.”

“Thanks, Inspector.”

“Off the clock. Greg. The two are Harris and Julie.” He sat back to sip his pint.

This felt a bit more familiar. John had spent plenty of quiet moments in Afghanistan nursing a drink and spending time with his fellow soldiers. The drink wasn't very strong, at least not to him, but he noticed it affected the others more. Another reminder that he wasn't quite human. 

John listened to to the small talk as the evening wore on, not contributing much until Greg got up to use the loo. Anderson, clearly well into his cups, turned his attention to John. “So what was the war like?”

The tension at the table changed as the others looked at him. John opened his mouth but Anderson cut him off. “John’s Enhanced. He’s working with Sherlock.”

Now they were all definitely staring at him. Julie scooted a bit away from the table. Donovan slapped Anderson’s arm, but the damage was done. 

“I did my duty,” said John carefully.

“No wonder you can deal with that freak. He’s half machine himself,” muttered Harris.

John felt his temper flare. “He’s more clever than you lot, that’s for sure,” he growled.

Greg picked that moment to walk back to the table. “How come you invited a ‘droid out for drinks?” asked Harris, almost as drunk as Anderson.

“John’s mostly human, Harris.” Greg put a hand on John’s shoulder. “And even if he wasn’t, he’s helped us.”

Harris scoffed. “Machines. All of them. Your Sherlock too, I don’t believe he’s 100% human.”

John’s fist clenched. Before he could speak Greg cut him off. “I think you’ve had quite enough, Harris. In fact, I think we all have. Come on John, I can take you home.”

Shaking his head and freeing himself from Greg’s grasp, John stood. “That’s quite all right, Inspector, I’ll walk home.”

“John!” Greg called after him as he quickly walked away.

Stepping outside, John took a deep breath. The streets smelled like rain. Greg meant well, no doubt, but he had to work with these people. It had been nice to be invited, but John doubted he’d take him up again. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and started down the street. No matter what he did, he’d never be considered human. That had been given up long ago.

To John’s surprise, the sleek black car pulled up to the kerb just as it started raining again. Shivering, John got in, finding Mycroft waiting for him. He wondered if the elder brother slept as little as the younger. “Thank you,” he said politely. “You seem to have a habit of turning up.”

Mycroft shrugged. “I was on my way home.”

“So was I,” said John.

“I know.” Mycroft looked at him a moment longer, then turned away.

John watched him for a long moment, saw the way the city lights flickered across his face. “So, besides being a mysterious and powerful government official, what do you do for fun?”

A smile creased his face, and he turned back to John. “I’m afraid my job keeps me rather busy.”

“Well you don’t seem like you have a local,” said John. “Maybe there’s something else you enjoy?”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow at him, then leaned forward and said something to his driver before leaning back. “The first day we met, you wanted to see the view.”

“I’d never really seen London before. Not the central city anyway. Did some work for my residency, but I wasn’t allowed outside the hospital.” John shrugged, remembering his cramped room in the basement with two other Enhanced training to be doctors and a scowling officer to make sure they only did their jobs or stayed in their rooms and nothing else. One of the others hadn’t graduated, had cracked under the strain. So he’d been terminated.

“I think you will like this,” said Mycroft as the car came to a stop.

John blinked, bringing himself back to the present. They got out of the car, Mycroft, as always, carrying his umbrella, even as they stepped inside a building. John realized it was one of the tall office buildings. This time of night the place was virtually deserted. An android seemed to be providing security, but he merely nodded at Mycroft. They stepped into a rather fancy elevator and John watched Mycroft push a button for the top floor.

“This isn’t the same place I met you last time,” observed John.

“It’s not. I have a number of offices depending on where I need to be on a given day.” Mycroft smoothed his suit coat, looking at himself in the reflection from the doors. John hid a smile.

They quickly arrived and Mycroft gestured for John to go out first. “Turn left and go to the end. Open the door on your right.”

John followed his directions, noticing that there was no name on the door as he pushed it open. He froze in place for a moment as he took in the floor to ceiling windows, and, beyond them, the city spread out beneath them, twinkling with lights.

Mycroft put a hand on the small of John’s back and steered him fully into the room. “I always did enjoy the night view,” he said softly. He stood at John’s side, and pointed out some of the places and things. In the distance he could see the hazy lights of the factories.

When Mycroft stepped away, John felt the loss of warmth against him. Blinking, he turned and saw Mycroft opening a fine liquor cabinet. He pulled out a bottle of something that was no doubt expensive and poured two glasses, handing one to John.

He sipped it, savoring the burn as it passed his tongue. “Thank you,” he said softly.

“You’re quite welcome,” said Mycroft.

They lapsed into silence, hanging heavy between them. John turned his attention out the window again, but he also watched Mycroft in the glass, seeing the way he held himself, the way he sipped his drink. Noticing his tongue darting out to catch a drip on his lips.

Finally, John’s own drink was finished. “I should go home,” he said, handing the glass back.

“Indeed, it’s late, and though my brother will never admit it, he’ll be worried about you.” Mycroft led him back to the elevator.

“He’s seems jealous of you occupying my time,” said John.

“He’s afraid that if you spend time with me, you won’t want to spend time with him. You and I know that’s patently false, but he’s still getting used to having a friend.”

John nodded. “I never had too many friends either. Life expectancy wasn’t that great in Afghanistan. Or where I was born for that matter. But I got close to a few.” _Like James_ , his brain supplied, though he’d barely thought about his old CO in weeks.

“I do understand,” said Mycroft, and John was certain that he did.

Mycroft gave the security guard android another nod and a small wave as they went back out. John stifled a yawn as they got back into the car. He settled against the seat and dozed lightly until the car stopped again. He opened his eyes to find they were in front of Baker Street once again.

“Thank you,” said John honestly.

“The pleasure was mine,” said Mycroft, hand barely brushing John’s.

John gave him a smile and got out. The car was gone before he’d even opened the front door.

The ghostly strains of violin greeted him as he climbed the stairs. Instead of going straight to his room, he stepped into the main flat. Sherlock watched him as he hung up his coat. 

"You were with Mycroft." It wasn't a question. 

"He picked me up after the pub, yeah." 

Sherlock finished the song. "What if I'd had a case?" He demanded. 

"Then you would have texted me and I'd have come." John rubbed the bridge of his nose. 

Sherlock studied him. "Go to bed. You'll be grumpy in the morning otherwise."

“There’s enough of me to go around,” said John, getting to his feet.

“You have your freedom,” said Sherlock, turning away from him.

John caught his arm. “And I choose to be here, with you, Sherlock, whenever you need me. You didn’t need me tonight.”

“I know,” said Sherlock, shaking free. “Go to bed.”

John rolled his eyes. “Goodnight, Sherlock.”

“Goodnight, John.” Sherlock picked up his violin once again.

John listened to the gentle strains as he climbed the stairs and peeled off his clothes. He lay awake and stared at the ceiling, wondering about these Holmes brothers.


	4. Chapter 4

John found he was glad for the few hours a week at the clinic. It did give him something to do besides stare at the walls. He walked every day, no matter the weather, breathing in the fresh air, or letting the clean rain dance on his skin. Sherlock was generally either busy or lost in his own mind; so long as John was there when he needed him that was what was important.

And Sherlock was nearly heedless of danger. When he was caught up on a case, he’d do nearly anything to chase down those responsible, but John kept up with him, keeping him safe, doing his job. 

The detective sometimes skirted very close to the edges of the central city, but more often than not, physical barriers kept them inside, and if not the physical barriers then patrolling soldiers. They weren’t police and they weren’t factory security. So he was utterly shocked on the day that Sherlock announced they needed to go into the slums. “Sherlock you can’t go down there,” said John, imagining all the ways that the detective might be literally eaten alive.

“I have before. I am very good at disguises. And I have you with me. Even if you haven’t returned in many years, you can still go places I may not be able to.”

John stared at him, breathing in the clean air, feeling the warmth of the sunshine through the window and felt a visceral punch that nearly sent him sprinting for the loo.

“John?” Sherlock’s voice was worried.

Composing himself and taking a few deep breaths, John looked up at him. “It’s for a case, I assume?”

“Of course.” Sherlock was throwing things into a bag. “I believe there’s a direct connection between the suspect and a contact hiding in the slums.”

“Does your brother know we’re doing this?” John had just finished cleaning his gun and checked it.

“If he doesn’t, he’ll be aware of it as soon as we leave the central city.” Sherlock gave him an odd look. “Has Mycroft contacted you?”

“Not since that night.” It had been more than a week ago.

Sherlock made a strange noise and threw his bag over his shoulder. “Come along.”

John was still mildly impressed by Sherlock’s ability to summon cabs. It was raining over the central city as they stopped in front of a bar near the border. John knew from recent experience that this was one of the areas with a border wall, but he trusted that Sherlock had a plan.

They went on into the pub, and with a nod to the barkeep, ducked into a back door and down into a basement. Sherlock dropped his bag and started pulling out things. “You don’t have to come if you don’t want to,” he told John.

“I’m not letting you go into the slums by yourself,” growled John.

Sherlock paused and looked at him. “You haven’t been there in almost fifteen years.”

“Life in the slums doesn't change that much, believe me.” He pulled on raggedy clothes, fighting back the momentary bit of panic at the back of his mind. He wasn’t going back to stay, only going back for this one job. Even in this basement the air was heavier.

Sherlock put a hand on his arm. John steeled himself and nodded, surprised by the change Sherlock had affected on himself. His pale skin was dirty and marked with grease and dye, his palms were green as if from long factory use. He took John’s hands and rubbed the color into his as well, then coated his skin..

Noticing something not quite right, John leaned over and adjusted Sherlock’s shirt. Sherlock gave him a nod and stepped to a small mirror, taking in his own appearance before stepping aside.

With another steadying breath, John looked in the mirror. It was like seeing a ghost of his father and he had to stare for a few moments to recognize anything of himself in the disguise. He turned away, grimacing, and nodded at Sherlock, eager to get this over with.

Sherlock led the way, pushing a piece of the wall aside and closing it behind them. The pathway was dimly lit, but Sherlock obviously knew his way. John stuck close by him, already knowing what he’d see on the other side.

They came out in the basement in another bar. Sherlock led the way up a rickety set of stairs and into the crowded pub. Nobody seemed to pay them any mind as they moved through the crowd. The pollution coated his lungs even before they stepped outside. John resisted the urge to glance upward; he already knew what he would see and nobody looked up in the slums anyway.

Sherlock led them a few steps to another bar, walking with a bowed gait that seemed to speak of years bent over machines. John let his limp show, eyes downcast, trying not to choke on the fetid air. He wondered how he’d ever survived sixteen years here.

This pub was slightly less crowded. Sherlock leaned on the bar, signalling for a couple of drinks. They were delivered and John saw some kind of signal go between Sherlock and the barkeep.

Sherlock patted his arm. “Wait here,” he said in John’s ear. “I will be in that booth just there.”

John nodded and sipped his drink as Sherlock moved. It tasted awful, but of course it did. The alcohol here in the slums was designed to make you black out drunk and forget what you did all day. If sometimes it made you go home and beat your kids, well, who cared about that?

Shaking back memories, John took a bigger swig. There was a card game going on at a table. Taking his drink, he sat down to play. There was barely a grunt of greeting as he was dealt in, but that was fine by John. Maybe this time he’d actually get lucky.

He quickly ran out of coin. Frowning, he patted himself to see if he had anything else he could wager. A hand fell on his shoulder and he turned, looking blearily up at Sherlock’s distinctive eyes. “Think it’s time we go,” he said firmly.

“Now wait a tick,” one of the other men said. “You going to settle his debts?”

“He owes nothing, as you can plainly see, he’s wagered and lost everything he had.” Sherlock’s natural dialect seeped in, just a bit. 

The man narrowed his eyes at them. “There’s the table fee. Where do you two work?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and tugged John to his feet, dropping coins on the table. “That should cover it,” he said. “Buy yourselves a drink.”

The men glanced at each other and stood. “You’re throwing around an awful lot of coin. And you didn’t answer his question.”

John was well into his cups and had quite enough of their attitude. Besides Sherlock had let go of his collar. He swung at the nearest man.

There was a sickening crunch as the man’s jaw broke. He dropped to the ground. The other two men looked at each other. 

One of them grabbed John’s arm with matching strength. “Well, we’ve got an Enhanced here, don’t we? Let me guess, did your duty and they chucked you right back here with ten missing years?” He threw John halfway across the bar, sending him crashing into a table.

John staggered to his feet as the other Enhanced made a move to grab Sherlock. He ducked the attempt, keeping his back to the wall. John started towards them, only for a pulse to run through his body, sending him crashing down. 

He rolled over to see the barkeep holding up a device that John recognised, designed to stop any enhanced in their tracks. He’d have a headache in the morning. “Take your friend and get outta here,” he growled at Sherlock. “Damn Enhanced aren’t trashing my place today.”

Sherlock hurried to his side and threw John over his shoulder. John’s stomach flipped at the motion and as soon as they were outside he tried to tell Sherlock he was going to throw up. Sherlock had to set him upright to get through the door of the other pub and John took advantage of the moment to get sick against the wall of the place, leaning heavily against it, his left arm hanging useless. Sherlock helped prop him up.

When he finished, the detective half carried, half dragged him into the pub, carrying him down the stairs and through the dim passage. John blinked in the light as they came back to the central city pub, somehow not surprised at all to find Mycroft Holmes standing there, glaring at his little brother.

“John’s hurt,” said Sherlock, an edge of panic to his voice.

Mycroft helped John to a seat against the wall. “Drunk, maybe some damage to his hand as he punched someone. The rest of it was a short range pulse designed to temporarily stop an Enhanced in their tracks. It’ll all come back online on it’s own.” He turned to glare at his brother. “What the bloody hell were you thinking?”

Sherlock actually took half a step back at the sudden display of wrath. He gathered himself and straightened his spine. “A simple matter of meeting a contact.”

“You _know_ where John came from. And yet you brought him back there?”

“He volunteered to go. It was just a simple meetup. John is more than capable of making his own decisions.”

“Perhaps, but you also have a responsibility to him. I’m fairly certain John Watson would follow you to the gates of hell, but that doesn’t mean you should take him there.”

John gulped fresh air and managed to get his feet under him, using the wall for leverage as he stood. “He gave me the choice not to go,” he slurred.

Mycroft turned to face him. John was surprised by the worry in his eyes. “We need to get you home,” he said, with a far gentler tone then he’d just given Sherlock.

“I’ve been drunker,” he said.

“But I’d imagine not in quite some time.” Mycroft took a step towards him.

“You didn’t wipe my memory,” John said, still looking at him. “You let me remember everything. Why?”

“You weren’t going back to the factories, there was no need to do so. Your memories and skills are needed here.”

“Right. And the minute I screw up and something happens, you’ll wipe my mind and drop me there because I’ll have outlived my usefulness. Completely this time.”

“It’s not like that, John. We can discuss this when you’re sober.” Mycroft took another step forward.

Sherlock looked between the two of them, wheels clearly spinning, even as he wiped off the disguise and changed into his normal clothes.

“Let’s get you home,” repeated Mycroft gently, finally reaching John and touching his human arm, despite the filthy disguise.

“By home, are you sure you don’t mean your place?” asked Sherlock, a hint of jealousy in his voice.

Mycroft glared at him. “He’s here to keep you safe. I’d kindly ask you to return the favor. I have a car waiting for you.”

He turned and stalked out. John noticed that this time he didn’t have his umbrella. Sherlock moved to John’s side. “Need to get you out of those clothes.” He wiped the makeup from John’s face and hands.

John let Sherlock do what he needed to, fighting to stay conscious. When he finished, he helped John up the stairs and into the car waiting at the kerb. John’s head rolled to the side and he saw Mycroft watching them, standing under an awning. He smiled and let himself pass out.

**

When John woke, it was in his own bed and with a pounding headache. Water and paracetamol were next to the bed and he swallowed them, lying back and staring at the ceiling, trying to remember. They’d gone to the slums. He remembered that much. After that, things were hazy.

He stared at the ceiling for a few minutes, then finally gathered enough of his wits to get out of bed. Right, loo first. John made his way carefully down the stairs, still feeling a bit unsteady, flexing his left hand as if testing to make sure he still had feeling in it, though he couldn’t remember why he needed to.

He did his business and splashed cold water on his face. He should shave, but that could wait until after tea. And probably a shower. With a sigh he he went through the hall and into the kitchen.

Sherlock was sitting at the table, a fresh cup of tea sitting across from him, clearly waiting for John. Grateful, he sat and cupped it in both hands, sipping it. Only then did he notice Sherlock was reading a file. A moment later he realized it was a file about himself. “What are you reading?” he asked casually.

“You know perfectly well what I’m reading,” said Sherlock, closing it. “Mycroft brought it by this morning.”

John couldn’t even muster up the energy to be angry about it. “And?”

“I am sorry I brought you into the slums. I shouldn't have done that.”

Looking down at his hands, John picked at a fleck of green that still lingered. “I wouldn’t have let you go by yourself.”

“If you’d known I’d gone, no,” agreed Sherlock. “Did my brother force you to take this job?”

John shrugged. “I volunteered when I was sixteen. I’m sure you read that in there. I don’t mind. I _like_ it here. You might put on the slums as a disguise, but you have no idea what it’s like to grow up and never see the sky.”

“You are correct,” said Sherlock. “I will endeavor not to take you for granted.”

“You don’t have to treat me like glass either. Did you get what you needed for the case?”

The tension seemed to seep out of the room with the change of subject and John was glad to hear excitement in Sherlock’s voice as he relayed what he’d learned. John sat back and listened as he sipped his tea. This was the way things should be. His mind wandered to Mycroft, but he quickly brought himself back to the present. Sherlock was who he needed to worry about, the other one could take care of himself.


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock seemed to keep a closer eye on John the following days, but he seemed to feel no lingering effect. Perhaps he watched the sky a little more, took a little longer to walk to and from work, but John didn’t speak of it. 

The third night after the slums he had a nightmare, dreaming of fetid air coating his lungs, hands dyed blue the way his father’s hands had always been. John woke with a start and fled to the bathroom, scrubbing at his hands, shaking. A few minutes later, Sherlock’s violin started up, soothing his frayed nerves. John gulped fresh air, dried his hands and went to the living room, lying on the sofa and staring at the sky outside the window until his eyes drifted closed again. In the morning, neither of them spoke of it. 

The day after that, Sherlock and John went to see Charles. Sherlock pushed open the door, only to find a different android behind the counter. “Where’s Charles?”

“I am the repair android assigned to this shop,” said the android. “How may I help you?” 

Sherlock frowned deeply. “Fetch me your master.” 

The android gave a bow and vanished into the back. And overweight man waddled from the back. His foul countenance changed when he saw Sherlock. "Can I help you?"

"Where's Charles? " Sherlock repeated. 

"Government came and collected him a few days ago. RO–25 here can help you.”

Sherlock turned on his heel and stalked out, pulling out his mobile as he hailed a cab. John let him have his angry silence as they traveled, wondering what all this meant for Charles. 

By the time they mounted the stairs to the flat, they found Mycroft waiting for them, umbrella in hand. He looked at John for a long moment, then turned his attention to Sherlock. The tension hung thick in the air before a word was spoken. 

"John, will you excuse us a moment? " said Mycroft.

"Course," said John, going out and closing the door behind him. He paused on the stairs going up to his room.

"I cannot help you with CH – 135," Mycroft’s voice was quiet, but John was an Enhanced; despite years on battlefields his hearing was still very good.

"Charles,” corrected Sherlock. "And why not?"

“You know perfectly well why not.” John could hear the umbrella shifting around as if Mycroft were anxious.

“You helped Anthea,” growled Sherlock.

“Anthea was human. She’s the only one of her kind.” John blinked and sat on the steps. She was an android? He had no idea, but, he supposed, that was probably the point.

“ _’Was’_? Do you hear yourself, brother?” Sherlock’s voice had turned into a sneer.

“In certain matters my hands are tied, Sherlock.”

There was the sound of Sherlock pacing. “You have a talented, gifted, mechanic, one they will destroy if they haven’t already.”

“You know the laws, Sherlock…”

“Don’t pander to me. Charles was going to fix John’s arm.”

“I know.”

John’s heart burned in his chest. A heart that, he knew, contained his destruction. All Enhanced were implanted with a failsafe designed to explode if they needed to be terminated. If he walked out now, would it go off? He was the fool his father had always claimed him to be if he let himself believe Mycroft Holmes considered him anything other than a means to an end.

With a deep breath, John slipped down the stairs and out the door. He was Enhanced. Designed for Government Service, a tool that, for the most part, had outlived its usefulness.

It began to rain as he walked aimlessly down the sidewalk. John turned up his collar, willing to go wherever his feet were taking him. His thoughts wandered as he walked past an android standing under an awning with a pram. What was it like to grow up with androids from the cradle? The closest thing to an android in the slums were the parts made in the factories; the slums were teeming with humanity. It was a far cry from the sterile environs of the central city. There were some Enhanced where he’d grown up, grizzled veterans with too much physical strength, who more often than not spent their free time drinking away the ghosts of things they couldn’t remember. John had seen that and he’d still chosen to sign up anyway, wanted to know what fresh air smelled like, wanted that little bit of freedom, that taste of something other than following his father into the factory or his mother into an early grave, though he knew volunteering might mean his death sooner rather than later anyway.

Yet, for some reason, he’d been spared that final fate, no matter the battles he’d fought or the dangers he’d been in. Despite all odds he’d survived and found himself in the employ of these Holmses. So what kind of life would this be? He’d been assigned to Sherlock because of his tendency for survival, he was certain of that, but how long could it last?

“John.” A familiar voice caught his attention. He turned and found a black car parked at the kerb, window rolled down, Anthea watching him. Anthea that he now knew wasn’t as human as she appeared. “Please, get in,” she said.

For a long moment, John hesitated. Finally, nodding to himself, hand fidgeting, he stepped towards the car. Anthea scooted to the far side so that he could get in. John looked her over as he settled into the seat, trying to see the android beneath her skin.

“I was killed on a mission,” said Anthea, clearly understanding his gaze. “My brain was more or less intact, so it was saved. I woke up in this body, a near perfect replica of the one I had before. Took getting used to, but I’ve been able to continue my work. As you’ve continued yours.”

“What work is mine?” asked John.

“Protecting people. Doing good where you can. Living your life.”

John snorted. “My life has never been my own.”

“It is now.” Anthea’s gaze was unfaltering. “You’ve been given your freedom. If you walk away you’ll still get your pension, can keep your job or get another one. Move to another city if you prefer. Or go back to the slums. Either way you won’t be terminated or wiped.”

John looked away, out the window at the passing city, the haze beyond the air filters. “I won’t ever fit in. I’m Enhanced, and spent ten years in a warzone. I might pass for human, but people will always find out.”

“You _are_ human, John.”

He shook his head slightly, closing his eyes, remembering waking up from the original procedure, of learning to use his arm. The training, for combat and for medicine, that all came down to a firefight in the Afghan desert and carrying his CO, his lover, to safety. A man he’d only seen once since.

“There are people who would like you to stay. Sherlock. Mycroft. Me. Lestrade too; Sherlock is different when you’re around.”

“Mycroft,” muttered John.

“I have worked for Mister Holmes for more than ten years myself. There’s something soft when Mycroft speaks of you.”

John turned finally to look at her. He studied her eyes, seeing nothing there that would indicate she was other than human, nothing that indicated she was telling him anything but the truth.

“He barely knows me,” said John at last.

“He knows enough. He knows what kind of man you are. And I think he would like to get to know you better.”

John sighed and looked heavenward for a moment. “Fine, take me home.”

Anthea nodded and then cracked a smile as the car came to a stop as he finished speaking.

“You’ve been circling the block, haven’t you?” asked John.

She gave only a bit of a smirk in response. John shook his head one more time and got out of the car. He looked at the door, then steeled himself and pushed it open. It was quiet as he climbed the stairs and he wondered if they’d left while he was gone.

To his surprise, Mycroft was alone, two cups of tea waiting for him to walk in. No sign of Sherlock; his coat and scarf were gone. John peeled off his wet jumper, leaving himself in his button up, and sat in his chair, picking up the steaming tea. Made perfectly, of course. Mycroft Holmes probably had numbered volumes on him somewhere.

Silence stretched between them, but it was oddly comfortable. John finished his tea and settled back, flexing his hand again, watching Mycroft. He could see the lines of worry around his eyes, the set of his shoulders as if he was used to carrying great weight. The careful dignity and propriety. But underneath was something more; he knew that as well.

John pursed his lips and sighed. “I assume you want me to stay here, to keep taking care of Sherlock,” he said at last.

“Yes,” said Mycroft, both hands on his umbrella as he leaned forward. “But I would like to see you as well.”

“And not just in the company of Sherlock I’d wager,” said John, moving forward, their knees almost touching. “I know time can be short.”

“As do I.” Mycroft met his eyes.

John reached into his pocket and tugged out the handkerchief. Reaching across, he took Mycroft’s hand and placed his own, smaller one, palm to palm. His human hand on Mycroft’s warm human skin. Watching Mycroft out of the corner of his eye, he wrapped the handkerchief around both their hands, binding them together.

Mycroft’s tongue darted out, wetting the corner of his lips. John reached up and cupped his cheek, drawing him into a gentle kiss. It felt right, it felt like the last piece of a puzzle sliding into place. He could live here, with Sherlock, with all that entailed, but he could have Mycroft too, get to know the man beneath the enigmatic suits.

“Oh for fuck’s sake, if you’re going to kiss, can you not do it in _my_ chair?” Sherlock’s voice interrupted them.

John and Mycroft startled apart. John looked up and saw the amusement behind the annoyance in Sherlock’s eyes.

Mycroft got to his feet, holding John’s hand still. “Would you like to return to my home, John?”

“If Sherlock doesn’t need me.”

Sherlock huffed and waved them off. Mycroft gently freed his hand and led John to the door. John wondered what would happen next, if Mycroft would allow him to touch him once they were alone again. He did know a few things about keeping a relationship behind closed doors, after all.

Sticking close behind the man, John followed him into car, now empty of Anthea, leaving them alone with the sound of rain hitting the roof.

**Author's Note:**

>  **This is actually my 300th fic!** A big thank you to everyone whose helped and encouraged me so far, as well as everyone who keeps reading and commenting.
> 
> You can find me on tumblr at [merindab.](http://merindab.tumblr.com)


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